More than a Family
by cuddlyhipster
Summary: Peter has no trouble getting pregnant, but can't carry the baby to term. He doesn't want Drax, who's lost his family before, to know he keeps losing their baby, but Drax finds out anyway...and that's when the trouble starts. Mpreg (and lots of it), Quill/Drax established relationship, slight hints of Groot/Rocket, angst with a side of fluff, rated M for safety.
1. Chapter 1

**This was written for a prompt on the GotG kink meme: **** . ?thread=85518#t85518**** And it's my first attempt at writing a story for a kink meme so please, pretty please, be easy on me.**

**Fair warning, I am not in any way shape or form a doctor. Pretty much all I had to go on for pregnancy/birth scenes is from Wikipedia or WebMD. So if you're expecting medical accuracy…don't.**

**Other warnings: blood and lots of it (Peter miscarries like, a dozen times), shit-tons of angst, curse words, possible sex, definite Peter whump, later on will definitely feature Peter-vs.-Rocket smackdown because reasons. **

**BUT on the upside I promise a happy ending! :)**

**Disclaimer: I obviously do not own Marvel. I don't own Peter Quill or Drax (but if I did, they'd live happily ever after together) or any of the other Guardians of the Galaxy.**

[Drax]

There is blood in the bathroom.

When you are part of a team of heroes, you expect injuries. But this is no flesh wound. And it certainly isn't the result of a battle. We have not had a proper battle since we defeated Ronan. Since then all we've done is stop petty crime and low-risk villains. Catching them in the early stages is, I admit, _much_ easier than stopping them once they get hold of an Infinity Stone…but I'm digressing.

The point is, there is far too much blood in the bathroom, and it is coming from a person who has done nothing today except perform regular maintenance on a recently-fixed spaceship. Well, all right, he also did a bit of food shopping, but really, that is hardly dangerous. There is no reason there should be this much blood.

But there _is_ blood, lots of blood, and if I do nothing, I will lose him. That is apparent. But what do I do? I can't even see where the blood is coming from. All I can see is my lover, sitting helpless in a pool of his own blood. And what am I supposed to do without knowing the specifics of the situation? So the first thing I do is enter the room, kneel beside him, and ask the obvious: "How did you injure yourself?"

He reluctantly turns his face up to mine. He's clearly exhausted, but aside from the bleeding I can see no other symptoms. "It's nothing," he says weakly. "Please, just leave…I'll clean it up, just give me a minute."

Leave? Not likely. Would _you_ leave if you saw your significant other in such a position? "No," I say firmly. "I will not leave until you tell me what has happened to you."

He shakes his head. Leans back against the wall. "I'm fine," he rasps. This is obviously a lie. "Please, Drax, just go…I just need—hey!" he yelps as I take matters into my own hands and pick him up off the floor. "What are you doing?"

"If you won't tell me how you've injured yourself, I will find out on my own." I reach over and turn on the shower. The first thing I'll do is clean off the blood; perhaps then the injuries will reveal themselves. "You could spare me the trouble. Just tell me who has hurt you, and I will go and kill them after I have seen to it that you receive medical care."

He whimpers softly, letting his head fall onto my shoulder. "Put me down," he begs. "Please don't kill anyone. No one's hurt me, I swear."

"Oh, I suppose you'll tell me, then, that you spontaneously began to bleed for no reason? I may not be an intellectual, Peter, but I know that is impossible."

He shakes his head. I start to undress him, but he lets out a tiny shriek of pain that makes me stop. Have I made it worse? "Put me down and I'll tell you," he says. "I swear, just…just put me down, please."

Slowly, cautiously, I set him on the edge of the bathtub, hoping to spare him further pain. He looks up at me through tear-filled eyes. This only increases my concern; I have never seen him cry before. I sit down beside him and watch the tears slide down his face. There is still blood coming from _somewhere_, but I can't tell where. "Tell me," I order quietly. "Tell me what happened to you. _Now_."

He inhales slowly. Looks down at the floor, instead of at me. I consider forcing him to look into my eyes, but before I can act on this thought, he speaks: "I—I miscarried, okay? It wasn't your fault. I just. It happened. I should've told you I was—pregnant—but I didn't because—I guess I was afraid this was gonna happen. And I didn't want to worry you so I didn't tell you. Okay? No one hurt me. So just—whatever you do, don't kill anybody."

"Miscarried?" I repeat, disbelieving. How could that be possible? "I thought it was only Terran women who could bear children." This must be a lie, he is certainly trying to protect someone. He knows if he tells the truth, I will tear apart whoever has hurt him.

"Yeah, well, I'm not 100% Terran, am I?" He finally looks at me, desperate, clearly in pain. I see his hand clench his stomach and, with a slight jolt, I realize where the blood is coming from. "Whatever race my father was, their men must be capable of getting knocked up, because here I am."

"Has this happened before? Have you carried a child?" I demand. Because this opens up a whole new realm of possibilities. I had thought, until now, that it was impossible to build a family with him. But now…

He shakes his head. "No, I've never had a kid…" He looks around the room, avoiding my stare. I know he isn't telling me something. He laughs, but there is no joy in the sound. "I…I only slept with women until you, remember?"

Ah. That makes sense. But this is still odd, because how could he know he was pregnant if he hasn't been before? "How did you know?" I ask.

"I might have—looked it up," he chokes out, looking down at his stomach. He's still holding on, still pressing his hand against his abdomen, as though he can somehow save the child that is no longer inside him. "I knew what the symptoms of pregnancy were—every Terran knows, trust me—but I—I never thought I could—so I bought a test and—I thought I couldn't—but it came out positive. So I looked up male pregnancy. Apparently Terrans are one of the few species in the galaxy that have that pesky women-only requirement." He laughs humorlessly again, and my heart wrenches. I wish he had told me sooner. As if reading my thoughts he quickly adds, "I wanted to tell you. I just…I was afraid."

"That is all the more reason you should have told me. I would have comforted you. And I would have celebrated with you." I cup my hand around his face and make him look at me. He is still in tears. I dislike this; I want to make him smile. "Is this not good news? We can have a family together!" I realize that the formerly promiscuous Peter may not like this prospect and quickly add, "If that would please you as much as it would me."

He manages a weak smile. "Yeah…I'd like that."

He looks so small, so vulnerable. I wish I could end his pain. But all I can do is pull him into my arms, very carefully—I don't want to cause him further harm. "If you consent, I will help you clean yourself. And perhaps it would be for the best if you were to spend the remainder of the day resting."

He leans against me, letting his head fall against my chest. "Thank you," he whispers. "I'll rest if you'll stay with me."

I tilt his face up to mine and kiss him. "Of course I will."


	2. Chapter 2

[Peter]

Okay, I lied.

I lied to Drax and yeah, he's going to kill me when he finds out. But oh, God, how could I tell him?

_~Eleven years ago~_

_I wake up in the middle of the night with debilitating stomach cramps. I know I'm going to throw up—it hurts so bad!—but I'm so weak I don't know if I can stand. I manage it, just barely, and make it to the bathroom just in time. I vomit twice, barely expelling anything the second time, and when I'm through I realize I can't even get up. Oh, God, it hurts so bad, make it stop, make it stop! I cry out, but I don't know if Justin can hear me._

_He does, eventually, and bursts into the bathroom. By this time the bleeding has started. He kneels beside me and asks what's wrong. "I can't stand up," I whisper. I can't even _move_ by this point. It hurts too bad, and the blood, oh God, there's blood coming out of me and I don't know why, I need it to stop, please, make it stop—_

_Somehow he figures out how to fly the _Milano_, somehow he gets me home. Yondu is not exactly overjoyed to see me, and I know this is a fact because the first words out of his mouth when the hatch opens are "Where the _hell_ have you been! I've had two jobs come in that you could've done if you weren't—" Then he sees me, limp and bloody in Justin's arms, and he immediately turns on my boyfriend. "What did you do to him?" he demands._

"_He didn't do anything," I choke out. "It wasn't his fault—please, it hurts—I don't know what's wrong, I can't make it stop—please—"_

"_Get him into the medical bay," Yondu orders, and Justin obediently hands me off to a nearby crewmember. I scream when I am taken away—the pain is so intense—I want him with me, I want Justin, don't take him away, please—but someone puts a needle in my arm and I black out, gratefully taking the release from the unbearable pain._

_When I come to Justin is there, holding my hand, and Yondu is waiting to tell me what happened. "Am I dying?" I ask. This is the worst-case scenario. I briefly wonder if I've somehow poisoned myself._

"_No." Yondu looks vaguely amused at the question. "Trust me, I'd tell you if you were."_

"_Well, thank God for that," I say sarcastically. "What's wrong with me, then?"_

"_Well." Yondu sighs. "I guess we know you aren't really Terran now, because guess what? You were pregnant."_

_No way. "How in the _fuck_ could that happen?" I demand._

"_You've got something other than Terran in you, kid. That's all there is to it. 'Cause you had a baby inside you, but now…" For the first time, Yondu looks mildly uncomfortable. "Well, now you don't. Let's just leave it at that."_

_I have no idea what to say to this. I turn to Justin, who I picked up on Xandar, and ask, "Do you have any idea what he's talking about?"_

_Justin looks about as awful as I feel. "It's my fault," he says softly. "I…I didn't know. We were unprotected…I got you pregnant, and then we must've done something wrong, because you…we lost the baby. You miscarried."_

_Oh, God. Now I understand. I don't even know how to feel. Can you really mourn something if you never knew it was there? "I'm sorry," I say, because I can think of nothing else._

_Justin shakes his head. I feel his hand tighten around mine. "_I'm_ sorry. I won't let this happen to you again."_

_But he does, and we do, over and over. Our relationship lasts six months. In that time, I miscarry two more times. And each time I feel worse. It's not that I'm desperate to have a child—really, that's the last thing I need right now—but the way he looks at me. Every time. It's like he's just figured out that I'm defective. I'm malfunctioning. Something is wrong with me and I have no idea how to fix it._

_After miscarriage #3, I give up. How can I keep doing this to someone I care about? Maybe he doesn't want a kid right now either-but if we stay together he will eventually, and it's clear by now that I can't make that happen for him. So I take him back to Xandar and tell him we're over. He's surprised—actually surprised, like he actually thought there was a chance in hell this could work. But I tell him to go, and he goes, and I decide then and there that I will have to do two things to keep this from happening: I will never date a male of any species, ever again. And just in case that doesn't work, I will never commit to anyone. It's too dangerous. If I don't commit, I reason, they will never find out._

_Because no one can know. No one will ever know again how defective I really am._

Drax is unbearably sweet. He treats me as though I'm made of blown glass as he undresses me, cleans the blood off of me, wraps me up in a towel, and carries me back to our room. I know I don't deserve this, but I accept it anyway, because I know that, for some unknown, Godforsaken reason, he actually loves me and he really is only trying to help. So when he lays me out on our bed (made from pushing two bunks together, it's not exactly glamorous but it's good enough) and redresses me in clean clothes, as if I couldn't do it myself, I thank him. And when he lies down beside me and takes me into his arms, I rest my head against his chest and let him stroke my hair until I relax enough to sleep.

I don't deserve it. I don't deserve him. I could have at least told him the truth. That we can never have the family he craves, because I am broken, I am a malfunctioning machine. I can't carry his child, or any child. But I can't tell him, I can't take away that last hope that he has. Because maybe, if I hope for it enough, it can happen. Maybe if I just do it right…

Who am I kidding. I'm useless. Whatever's going on inside my body, it won't fix itself because I wish on enough stars. I'm never going to be able to give him what he wants.

Three weeks later I wake up far too early in the morning, waves of nausea rolling over me. _Oh, no. Not again_.

I drag myself out of bed and into the bathroom. I lean over the toilet, bracing myself with one hand against the wall, and—_here we go_—empty my stomach, losing what little dinner I was able to get down last night. For several days now Drax has been pressuring me to eat, but I don't want normal things, I want random, weird foods I'd have to fly back to Terra to get. Besides I throw it all up anyway, and nothing smells good to me anymore, or looks good for that matter. Just the sight of most of the food on the _Milano_ makes me gag—

_Oh, fuck._

I could lie to myself. I could say this is the stomach flu. But why bother?

_This is happening again_.

It would figure that in the first few months of finally, _finally_ sucking it up and telling Drax I wanted to be with him, I'd get knocked up. For someone as stupid as me, well, that's just par for the course. I'm used to pregnancy scares…it's just that they're usually coming from my partner, not me. So no, getting pregnant within a couple of months, that's not a shock. Unpleasant, yes, but not a shock.

But miscarrying, being utterly humiliated, and then going through it _again_ just weeks later? I want to cry. Is this what I get for lying to him? Is this my punishment for not saying something that I knew would make him leave me? Should I have told him?

I don't know. All I know is that I won't tell him this time. He will never, ever know again that I have lost his child. He doesn't deserve that. Ronan killed his family, for God's sake. How can I possibly tell him that I'm essentially doing the same thing? Every time we lose a baby, he will have to relive that. He'll remember what happened to his real daughter, the one who actually survived past the pregnancy stage. And what kind of monster would I be if I forced him to relive that every time my stupid body can't get its shit together and carry a kid past the first six weeks? He might have pretended it didn't affect him—but I saw the look on his face when I told him I'd lost his baby. It hurt him, I know it hurt him, and I know he won't tell me it hurt him,

So I don't tell him about this one. And when I lose the baby, as I knew I would, this time I hide my cries of pain by blasting music while I lie bleeding on the floor in the shower, and I'm careful to clean every drop of blood from my body before I let him see me. What he doesn't know can't hurt him. It can hurt me. But not him. I will die before I hurt him like that again.


	3. Chapter 3

**There's a pretty big time jump in this chapter, so just for clarification: This Drax POV takes place approximately one year after he first caught Peter in the process of miscarrying.**

[Drax]

Something is wrong with Peter. And whatever it is, I am certain that losing the baby has something to do with it. But that was almost a year ago, I can't understand why he won't at least discuss it with me. He has taken to curling up on the edge of our bed, refusing to allow me to hold him as he sleeps. I don't like that at all. I long to reassure him, tell him that if he truly wants a child this badly, we can try again. But he hasn't allowed me to touch him in weeks, and we can't conceive if he won't let me make love to him. Besides, I quite enjoy keeping him close to me while we sleep; I feel a constant need to protect him.

But Peter won't let me protect him anymore. He avoids me, refuses to speak to me unless absolutely necessary, and—this is by far the most worrying—rejects physical contact. Not only the sexual type (though that itself is quite unsettling; the Peter Quill I used to know would _never_ turn down sex) but _any_ sort of contact. When we landed on Xandar a few days ago I tried to hold his hand and he responded by darting around to stand on Gamora's other side so I could not reach him.

It has been slow, this transition from love to indifference. He has been gradually closing me out over the course of about six months now. At first I pretended not to notice, thinking it was a phase, thinking he needed time. But now I know better. This is no phase. For weeks now he has avoided me, and for weeks he has refused the sympathy and affection of anyone, not just me, but every member of our team as well. I wish I knew _why_.

I can only assume I have done something wrong. I think back around the time he truly stopped speaking to me. I remember the night he turned the volume of his audio player so high that Gamora beat on the bathroom door and shouted that perhaps _he_ enjoyed music in the shower, but the rest of the team was trying to sleep. That was odd, because usually he will turn the volume down when asked. But that night, he refused. Gamora was ready to tear down the door. Having been asked not to, I couldn't very well tell her why Peter might need his music more than usual, but I did convince her to leave the ship unmaimed.

A few nights after this I pushed him into our room and asked why he'd felt the need to treat us all to the sounds of his audio player at ten o'clock at night, _three nights in a row_. He avoided the question. I didn't like that, but he found certain ways to distract me, and since he was acting somewhat reticent around me—though not nearly as much as he is now—I welcomed his attentions. That was the last time he allowed me to make love to him before he began to truly push me away. And he was quite vocal about his enjoyment that night (so much so, in fact, that the next day Rocket demanded we let him go into a hardware station so he could get the supplies to soundproof our bedroom door), so if I have somehow committed any offense, that wasn't when I did it.

I know better than anyone here the pain of losing a child. But I also know Peter. I know him quite well, and this is very unlike him. Events that would have others weeping on the floor seem to have little effect on him. He is, in most situations, quite brave. I think back to the evening we met, in the Kyln—few others would have dared to approach me, to interrupt a sure kill. But he did. He came forward, spoke for the woman, prevented me from making a terrible mistake. I was too angry that night to express it, but I was impressed by his courage.

But he doesn't seem so courageous now. One morning he comes out of our room with dark circles under his red eyes. He is pale as the linens and looks as if he hasn't bathed for a week, and as far as I know, he hasn't. His clothes are wrinkled; last night he didn't even change from day clothes to pajamas. I look around the breakfast table. Gamora is composed as usual, but I notice her sneaking short, quick looks at him when he isn't looking at her. Groot looks as worried as it's possible for a tree to look. He gives Peter a long, sympathetic stare, and then says cautiously, "I am Groot?"

"He wants to know why you look like crap," Rocket translates. "And quite frankly, so do I. What the hell happened to you? Seriously, Quill, you look like a bucket of fuck that's been stepped in, knocked over, and tracked to infinity."

Before I can appropriately break down, analyze, and question what Rocket has just said, Peter gives him a look of such loathing that even I feel I would not like to be on the other end of it. "Shut the fuck up, Rocket," he growls.

Rocket puts up his hands defensively. "Hey, just asking. Did someone break your music thingy? Is that why you're so pouty? Or is lover-boy here just not putting out at the rate you'd like?"

Peter drops into the seat between me and Groot. "Maybe you didn't hear me, Rocket," he says, his voice low and dangerous. "But I said, very clearly, _shut the fuck up_. I know that's pretty complicated for a _rodent_ like yourself to comprehend, but let me just say it one more time, maybe this time you'll understand: Shut. The. Fuck. Up."

For a moment, everyone is silent. I know I am not the only one who is shocked by what Peter has just said. He has never said anything so cruel to Rocket before. Everyone is aware that "rodent" is about the worst name one can call Rocket. In fact, Peter is the first to defend Rocket against such cruelty. Never before has he instigated it.

Slowly, Rocket puts down the spoon he was holding. Now he looks at Peter and bares his teeth. "I'm sorry, _what_ did you just call me?"

Groot, sensing trouble, crawls up on the table, effectively separating Peter and Rocket. "I am Groot," he says urgently, wrapping a single branch around Rocket to keep him from lunging across the table. "I am Groot!" he repeats frantically when Rocket thrashes against the branch, nearly kicking Gamora out of her seat.

"I don't care if he didn't mean it! He's still gonna pay!" Rocket shouts, struggling furiously against the branch holding him in place.

"Get him out of here, Groot," Gamora orders calmly, rising to her feet. "Peter, you'd better tell us what's going on and you'd better do it now, or I might let Rocket give you what you deserve."

Peter lets out a short, harsh, humorless laugh. "Oh, believe me, Gamora. He could kick my ass up between my ears and still not give me _everything _I deserve."

Everyone quiets at that. Even Rocket stops thrashing. I turn to my lover, unable to process what I have just heard; what could he possibly mean by that? "First of all, how could he relocate your buttocks to your head?" Gamora gives me an odd look. All right, she is correct, that's hardly the most pressing matter, but it certainly was an odd choice of words. "And second, how could a single beating from Rocket not compensate for whatever wrongs you believe you have committed?"

Peter doesn't answer. He stares hard at the tabletop. I am used to his refusal to look me directly in the face by now, but it still pains me that he won't even acknowledge my presence.

"I am Groot?" Groot says softly, and I see his grip on Rocket start to slacken.

Rocket wriggles out of the branch and drops onto the floor. "Yeah, what do you mean, Peter? Not that I won't gladly take the opportunity to kick your ass, but why?"

Peter still doesn't say anything, but he sneaks a look at me, and suddenly I understand. He hasn't been avoiding me because I offended him. He has been avoiding me because he thinks that he, somehow, has offended me. But how could he think that, when I have been trying for months now to coax him back to me?

I decide to take the risk. Very carefully, I reach up and lay my hand on his shoulder, touching him as gently as I can. "Peter," I begin, not even sure what I will say, but thinking that anything could be better than nothing—

But before I can form a single sentence, Peter violently jerks himself out of my grip. "Don't touch me," he snarls. But this maneuver, I can see, is more defensive than truly angry. For what reasons I cannot comprehend, Peter has decided-his remarks about deserving a beating made this quite clear-that he has no right to be loved.

And that, well…that just isn't right with me.

He stands up, knocking his chair over. Groot, sensing the danger, leaps up and takes Rocket into his arms again. Gamora goes for her knife, and I see why: no one knows what Peter will do next.

And what he does next is turn on me. I can't say I didn't expect it. "What are you even still doing with me?" he demands. "I think I've made it pretty fucking obvious, as I know I have to do with you because you're too fucking _stupid_ to take a hint, that I want you to just go the hell away! Have I not been clear on that? Because if I haven't, let me repeat, I don't want—"

But he doesn't finish. He crumbles. Drops back into the chair and curls into a ball, and I'm fairly certain that any passersby could hear his excruciating sobs as they drift by the _Milano_. Gamora, Rocket, and even Groot look alarmed. I'm not sure what to do; I am not used to seeing Peter cry, but I know that crying is a better thing for him to do than insult and physically threaten all of us, so I sit back down beside him and, for the first time in weeks, wrap my arms around him. Gamora quickly ushers Groot and Rocket away, leaving me alone with Peter.

"I'm sorry," he moans as soon as we're alone. "God, Drax, I'm so fucking sorry…I didn't mean it, I swear, I don't know what's wrong with me, I'm trying, I'm trying so hard and I don't want you to stop wanting me but I…I can't…I can't be what you need, I should just go, I should leave, I should—"

"What you should do is, stop telling me to go away and let me hold you," I tell him, and he does as I say, and it hurts me to see him cry like this, but it feels wonderful to have him in my arms again. I pull him close and rock him like a child until he stops crying, and when he quiets I say, "Now, tell me. What is it that you've done that you feel is so awful, that you believe I will stop loving you because of it?"

He pulls away and half-heartedly wipes his eyes on his shirtsleeve. "Nothing. I'm—I'm just being stupid. I'm sorry."

I'm not going to let him go that easily. "What do you mean you can't be what I need? How can you say such a thing as if it were a fact?"

He makes another attempt to dry his eyes. "I just—nothing. I'm not thinking clearly. I've been in a bad mood and I'm taking it out on everyone else. I'm sorry." As if apologizing repeatedly will clear up any confusion. He stands, but has to use the tabletop to push himself upright. I know he's weak, but I can't understand why; is he ill? He takes a few staggering steps away from the table and nearly falls. I leap up to catch him, but he has already steadied himself. "I need to go apologize to Rocket. I'll talk to you later, I swear."

Before I can stop him he has staggered across to the door. I wait for him to be just outside before I follow him. He doesn't see me, but I can see what he does: as soon as he thinks I'm not watching, he leans against the wall and rests one hand on his stomach, breathing hard. As his hand comes into contact with his abdomen a look of anger crosses his face, followed by intense sadness. I watch, and suddenly, I understand.

I know what this is about.


	4. Chapter 4

**WARNING: there are some sexytimes in this chapter. Fairly mild, non-graphic descriptions of sexytimes, but sexytimes nonetheless. Consider yourself warned. …Unless you were looking forward to that. In which case, please, enjoy yourself ;)**

[Peter]

Six. It's happened six times now.

Six times I've allowed myself to get knocked up by him in the hopes that maybe this time, this fucking time, I'll actually get to have a kid with him. And every single time it happens the same way: the first few weeks of pregnancy are hell on earth. I throw up, I alternate between feeling ravenously hungry and not being able to stand the sight of food. My emotions are so out of whack that something that previously had no effect—like Gamora affectionately calling me _idiot_—makes me tear up, and something that would normally bother me-like Rocket trying to rip bits of the _Milano_ out to make one of his weapons—no longer bugs me at all. All of this I have to carefully keep hidden from Drax, because if anyone on this damn ship knows the signs of pregnancy, it has to be him. And if he suspects, well, that just won't end well.

And then once I get out of the six-week cycle of torture that is the early stage of pregnancy, I start to hope. If I made it through that, I think, maybe I can make it just a little longer. But I never do. Like clockwork, by the ten-week mark the fetus dies. Every single time. You'd think after the first few times it would be less painful. But it never is. And I always have to hide it. Clean it up, keep it hidden from the one person who has the right to know.

_But he doesn't_, I always remind myself. _He doesn't need to know. He's lost one child, don't give him the chance to get attached to any of the parasites growing inside you. He'll get his hopes up, just like you do, and then be crushed when he finds out that, once again, the damn thing hasn't survived. Don't even give him the chance._

And when I'm lying on the bathroom floor, or huddled in the corner of the shower, trying to block out the pain with one of my mom's tapes, I know I've made the right decision. Because I promised myself I would die before I hurt him like this again, and I intend to keep that promise.

After he saw me miscarry for the first time he became annoyingly overprotective of me. And I knew he was doing it because he loved me, but somehow that made it worse-stupid way of thinking about it, but I guess I felt like he had no right to try and protect me since I was so busy trying to protect him. At first, though, I let him do it. Because I'm weak, and I know it, and because I could never resist a hand on my arm or a kiss on my neck, especially when it's coming from someone who makes me feel the way he does.

_I can't sleep, I'm too cold. I lie in bed shivering until he comes in the room, warm and sweaty from his nightly workout. He never showers after these workouts, not since I told him I like the way exercise makes him smell, so it's only a matter of about ten seconds before he is in bed and his heavy, muscled frame is wrapping steadily around me. I let out a deep sigh and melt against him. Tonight I long for the closeness even more than usual, and that's saying something considering I've always been a huge sucker for any sort of physical contact._

"_You're cold," he observes, and I swear I can hear him frowning. "I apologize. I should have been here to keep you warm."_

_I yawn. Now that I have him here with me, I feel relaxed and very sleepy. "Mmm. Does it really matter, though? You're here now. That's all that counts."_

"_Yes. I am here now." Strong, warm hands caress my skin, gently massaging my hips, my chest, my thighs, every bit of me he can reach. "Peter?"_

"_Mmm?" I sigh. It's hard to think straight when he's touching me like this. God, I feel so safe right now. All I know is that I never, ever want him to let go of me._

_His breath is warm and comforting against my ear as he whispers, "If you still wish to have a family with me, I'm ready when you are."_

_This should jolt me awake. But it doesn't. Because here, now, in his arms, what he is suggesting almost seems possible. "Tomorrow. We'll talk tomorrow," I murmur, and roll over to face him, pressing my face against his chest. Oh, this moment is perfect. I relax against him as he strokes my hair and I think, just before I fall asleep, that this must be what heaven feels like._

It was so good at first, because every touch, every kiss, every night spent lying in his arms reaffirmed my decision to keep my miscarriages from him. Because he was too good, too precious, to hurt like that. And I knew that those few hours of misery were worth the light in his eyes when we had sex, when he held my hand, when he told me for the seventh or eighth time in one day how much he loved me.

At first we'd have sex three or four times a week. And every day he'd reach over, lightly caress my stomach, and ask, "Do you think it's happened?"

And if I wasn't pregnant at the time I'd shake my head and say "No, I know how it feels, this isn't it. Not yet." But if I was, I'd try to distract him with a kiss. I'd give him a seductive look and say, "I don't know. Maybe we'd better try again. In fact, let's try again right now." And we'd fall onto our bed together and I'd think, _if I make it past the ten-week mark this time, I'll tell him. He'll be so happy. We'll be parents…_ But I never made it.

Around the third miscarriage, I lost what was left of my hope. I knew, by then, that it wasn't meant to be. But by that point it was too late. I was desperate to conceive with him, desperate to give him a child. To give him a family that I know he craved more than I did. And I tried so hard to conceive that he noticed the marked change in my sexual appetite. He commented on it, but I noticed he didn't complain. Why would he? I think he might be the only person in the entire galaxy who actually enjoys sex more than I do.

Having desperate-hot-wild sex every night paid off. I conceived a fourth time, and this time I made it to ten weeks. I was ecstatic. I thought, _okay, this is it. I'll tell him this time._

But of course, it never works out the way I want it to. Why should that time have been any different?

_Six months ago to the day, he caught me doing exactly what I am now. Lying on the bathroom floor, gritting my teeth through the last shocks of pain. Trying to keep from crying out as the child I worked so hard to conceive exits my body in a pool of blood._

_But that day he was here, that day he held me and kissed me and cleaned the blood off of me, and he tried to tell me—even if I was in too much pain to listen—that he loved me. Now he isn't here, and I have to be brave without him._

_I clench my hands into fists, swallow hard, and remind myself that I am doing this for him. That I have been right, all this time, to not tell him when I've conceived, because this is inevitably the outcome. I can't hurt him again. He's lost a child, remember? He knows how badly it hurts. If he knew how many babies I was so close to having—he'd be heartbroken. I can't do that to him._

_When it's over I shower, rinse away the blood, fix my smile back into place. But this time when I go back outside he is there, waiting. "What took so long? I didn't think you were planning on bathing tonight."_

"_I had a headache. A long shower sometimes helps with that," I lie. I turn away from him, so he can't see how red my face is. Sit down on the edge of the bed, so he can't see me limping, can't see that every step hurts. Oh, God, just make him go away!_

_He comes over, lays a hand on my shoulder. "Something is wrong," he observes._

_I shrug off his touch. "Nothing's wrong," I say roughly. "Just a headache. Let me have a minute to myself, would you?"_

_I know he's got to be shocked. I've never snapped at him like this before. But because he takes everything I say literally, he does as I ask and leaves me alone to fight off the depression that is slowly, steadily closing in around me._

That was the beginning of the end. That was when I knew that I couldn't give him what he wanted, and I finally accepted that he'd be better off without me. But I knew that if I attempted to break it off clean, he wouldn't let me go without a fight. And I didn't have the energy, emotionally or physically, to fight him at that point. I'd give in if he tried to win me back. If I let him think it was his fault, he'd only try to make up for it, and at the first romantic gesture I'd melt like butter and fall right back into his arms.

So instead, I decided the only thing to do would be to push him away bit by bit, so that he'd eventually get fed up with me and end the relationship himself. I started rejecting his attempts to be affectionate. Not that it always worked—in fact, one night he won me over completely, and I accidentally conceived again, which of course resulted in disaster—but I managed to phase him out enough to the point where he clearly knew something was wrong.

But it hurt—it _still_ hurts—to be without him. I started putting up the walls again, not only shutting out Drax but shutting out the others as well. If I let them think I was just an asshole, maybe it would help get the point across that he didn't need someone like me around. But all it seemed to do was encourage him to be even more protective, even more loving and caring, and I can't help it, I never could-he broke me. Again and again. Every time he would come to me and ask me if something was wrong, and every time I would push him away, and eventually he would wear me down and I would find myself pressed against him, blissfully happy in his arms once again.

Until that one time…

_Sweat pours down my skin in rivers as my back arches, my body desperately pressing into his. Oh, God, the way he makes me feel…I've had sex with so many people, so many _species_, and no one has ever given me this kind of pleasure. Every time we do this I wonder how I've gone so long without it._

_His teeth find my neck, scraping across the sensitive skin in a way that absolutely sets me on fire. "Oh, _oh,_" I moan, thrusting against him, trying desperately to relieve the pressure building inside me. "Please—Drax—please—"_

_His only response is to bite harder, make me squirm even more. His hand slides down my side and rests on the back of my thigh. He lifts, just slightly, and I need no further encouragement to wrap my legs around him. When I feel him against me, _inside_ me, I almost _scream_, it feels so good. "Yes, _yes_," I cry, moving against him with total abandon. I want this, I need this, how did I ever think I could go without this? "Faster, more, please, oh God, faster, need it, need you, more, please—please—oh—_oh!_" I throw my head back and he bites me again, making me nearly shriek with pleasure._

_But it's what he does next that completely breaks me: He grabs a handful of my hair and forces my head forward, giving me no choice but to look into his eyes, and when he speaks it isn't some obscenity meant to drive me wild, oh no. It's much worse than that. "I love you," is what he says._

_For a second I am frozen. I can't move. I can't breathe. The sincerity in his voice absolutely overwhelms me. But then again, it shouldn't. Drax is never insincere._

_And then he moves again, and once again I am lost in our lovemaking. But afterwards I lie there beside him, so desperately in love with him, and I know I have to stop. _We _have to stop. Because the longer I drag this out, the more I hurt him. The longer I let him hope that someday our family will be a reality, the worse it will be when he finds out it won't happen._

_And so from here on out I commit, 100%, to driving him away._

It could have worked if I hadn't broken down in front of the others. And once I let him hold me again, well, it was all over. I _have_ to leave so I can pull myself together. _Well done, Quill. You can't even break up with someone properly. How the hell did you _ever_ think you could father a child?_

After I leave him I stagger down the hall, legs shaking so much I can barely hold myself up, and stare helplessly in the mirror. God, I look awful. Rocket was right.

Speaking of which. I have some serious groveling to do, unless I want to become Rocket's permanent punching bag.

I find Rocket tinkering with the control panel in the engine room, Groot sitting safely outside away from the sparks. I look at the tree, unable to hold back a smile. He really is awfully cute. It's just that I have to constantly remind myself that he even though he could easily break every bone in my body, he probably won't. "Think he'll accept my apology?" I ask Groot out of the corner of my mouth, nodding towards Rocket.

Groot gives me the patented thin-lipped, awkwardly-adorable Groot smile. "I am Groot," he says happily.

I take that for a yes. "Hey, Rocket?" I say, just loud enough for him to hear me. He whips around. His eyes narrow when he sees me, but I carefully edge past Groot and into the control room. "Look, I just needed to say I'm sorry. Okay? That's all I'm gonna say. If you wanna rail at me, you can. Hell, if you wanna punch me, you can." His fist would probably go for either the groin or the stomach. Personally I'm hoping for the stomach at this point—why prolong the inevitable?

Rocket just glares at me. "If you're thinking I'm going to forgive you just like that, you're wrong."

"I expected that. Which is why I suggested you whack me."

"I'd rather have Groot do it for me. Much more painful that way."

I shrug. "Yeah, well. Like I said earlier. It's not like I don't deserve it."

He cocks his head at me, sizing me up. "What's _up_ with you?"

"I'm pregnant." The words fly out of my mouth before I can stop them, but I realize I actually _want_ to say them as soon as they're out. God, it feels so good to tell someone. Okay, so I just told a homicidal raccoon, but still.

He looks surprised, but not shocked. So I guess it's not that weird, then, for half-alien half-human males to get pregnant. Go figure. "No shit?"

"No shit," I confirm.

A slow, deliberate smile spreads across his face. "Well, for fuck's sake, why didn't you tell me? Fucking _hell_, Quill. That explains the mood swings."

"Yeah, well…Drax doesn't know."

The smile disappears. "Quill, you _gotta_ tell him."

I take a deep breath. "He'll never know."

"Why not?"

I tell him, in as few words as possible. He frowns. "So what you're telling me is you've had, like, a half-dozen fetuses die on you—well, more than that, but ballpark figure—and you've never been to a legit doctor? Quill. Look, buddy, don't take this the wrong way, but…you're a fucking _moron_. For all you know there's a perfectly safe treatment out there for this but you wouldn't know, because you sit in here sulking like a God damned _idiot_. Jeez. And here I thought Drax was the dumbass for putting up with you all this time."

"He is," I assure Rocket miserably. "Hell, _I'd_ have broken up with me by now."

"Look, it's not the end of the world. You tell him, you go to Terra or Xandar or someplace with, y'know, legit medical care, and you might actually have a shot in hell of carrying this kid to term. Just do it before it's too late, okay?" Suddenly he's serious. "Look…let me put it this way. I know Groot can't really do much to hurt himself, but just imagine he could. And he kept hurting himself the same way over and over and didn't tell me because he thought I'd be pissed…jeez, Quill. I'd be furious with him, and you know why? Because if I went into our room and found him in there, dying, and I was too late to save him…" Rocket trails off and looks down to the floor. "Well. Let's just say it was bad enough, what he did on Ronan's ship."

He looks out to the oblivious tree sitting in the hall, and his expression turns from dead seriousness to a mixture of love and exasperation. For a moment I see the soft side of Rocket—and that is truly amazing, because no one, _no one_, except _maybe_ Groot, ever gets to see this.

I nod. "I know…God. I can't even imagine if Drax did something like that."

He snaps back to attention, and he's tough-as-nails, totally non-softy Rocket again. "Well, guess what, moron? You're doing it to him. Over and over. Suppose you bleed out one day?"

"Not possible." But suddenly I don't know. What if it is?

"You don't know that," Rocket accurately guesses. "Look…tell him. Today. Before it happens again."

I look back out to the hall. Groot is still there, oblivious to the seriousness taking place inside the engine room. And all I can think is that a worse friend than Rocket would have reassured me and told me I was doing the right thing.


	5. Chapter 5

[Drax]

I don't see Peter for the rest of the day. But when I go to our room that night he is there, dressed in one of the shirts I only occasionally wear, curled up on the end of our bed and looking at me with sad eyes. "Hi," he whispers. It's all he says, but I can tell that he wants to say more.

I go in and close the door behind me. "You are speaking to me again?"

He flinches. "Okay, I deserve that." Slowly he pushes himself upright. "Do you hate me?"

I enjoy when he is straightforward with me like this. So often he avoids the real problem and distracts me with mindless chatter. Tonight, he gets straight to the trouble, and I like that. "No. I love you, I have told you that many times." I sit down on the bed beside him, and when I hold out my arms to him he immediately comes to me. Oh, yes. I have certainly missed this.

"I'm sorry." He tilts his head up, looking at me through his eyelashes. "I love you too. I'm sorry."

I lie back slowly, bringing him down to the bed with me. "If you are unhappy over your trouble with conception, you need not worry. I understand."

He turns his head and looks at me in surprise. "Wait, what?"

It's odd that he is so surprised by my comment. But then again, I suppose he wasn't expecting me to figure it out. "I saw the way you held your stomach today, when you thought I wasn't looking. Peter, I want a family as much as you do…but if you are truly unable to conceive another child, perhaps it isn't meant to be. If you are that desperate for a child, though, I'm certain we could find an orphan on Knowhere who would be glad to have us as parents."

His eyes flood with tears. I'm still unused to seeing him cry, but the smile on his face contradicts the tears and I understand that I have somehow made him happy. "Thank you," he whispers, and buries his face in my chest. I hold him like that until I hear the quiet, steady breathing that means he is asleep. Only then do I succumb to sleep myself, greatly relieved that our separation is over. We are together again. I much prefer it this way.

~o~

It is still dark outside. I should not be awake, but I am. Why am I awake? I look at the clock. It is only five-thirty in the morning. Then I look and see that Peter is not in bed. Why is _he_ awake? With all the emotional distress he has felt today, he ought to be resting. I get out of bed to go and get him. He really needs to learn to take better care of himself.

But when I get to the bathroom, I am suddenly rendered immobile, paralyzed momentarily by the sight before me. Peter is kneeling by the toilet, weeping and clutching his stomach in pain…with bright-red blood spilling down his legs. With one hand he desperately wipes at the blood, staining a white washcloth red. My stomach clenches. He is so clearly in pain, such _incredible_ pain, and he is alone. Why is he here, without me, when I made it perfectly clear last time that he has every right to come to me when he needs help?

I remain frozen for another second or so. And then I take action. I enter the bathroom, closing and locking the door behind me. I certainly don't want the others to see this. Peter looks up at the sound of the door closing, and the look on his face would be enough to make even Ronan feel sympathy. For a moment he looks _afraid_. He is afraid of me…but why? And then he falls to the floor, still clutching his stomach, sobbing too hard to speak.

This has gone far enough. I make a brief detour at the bathtub to turn the hot water on full-force. This is the least I can do for him. I lift him up, careful to not jostle him too much, and sit down on the toilet, holding him in my lap as though he were a small child. "What is happening to you?" I ask him, already knowing the answer, but needing to hear it from him.

"I'm…" He grits his teeth, and his grip on my arm becomes alarmingly tight. Tears continue to streak down his face. "I—I'm losing a baby. Again." He inhales sharply. I'm no doctor, but I know that the physical pain alone of what is happening to him right now is difficult to endure by anyone's standards. "I'm sorry—I should have told you—I couldn't, though—I couldn't hurt you like that."

Hurt me? How could he think that his pregnancy would be sad news for me? Unless…I look into his tear-streaked face. "This is not the first time you have miscarried since you told me you were capable of carrying a child." I don't have to ask. I _know_.

He closes his eyes and buries his face in my chest. "Please don't hate me," he begs, and then he succumbs to the pain, crying out and curling his small, broken body against mine. I hold him tightly, knowing this is the only thing I can do to give him any form of relief.

When the worst of it is over, he looks at me again, his face so filled with pain and sadness and _fear_. I stroke his hair, I know it is a meaningless gesture but I hope that it will bring him some degree of comfort. "Why did you not tell me you were suffering frequent miscarriages?" I ask. He looks ashamed, and I quickly add, "I am not angry with you. Not at all. But I do need to know, why did you feel you had to keep secrets from me?"

He swallows hard. "I was going to tell you I was pregnant tomorrow…but I didn't want you to be…to be hurt, I guess…because you—I knew you lost your family, and I knew you lost your _daughter_…I mean, Drax, the first time this ever happened to me, I was only twenty-three and I didn't even _want_ a kid, but I was crushed when it kept happening—"

"This happened before we met?" I break in, stricken by the news. He lied to me more than once? I am hurt, but I can't bring myself to be too angry with him. Not when he has already suffered so much.

He nods and explains in a tiny voice, "I…when I was younger…I dated this guy from Xandar, and I got pregnant with his kid. I didn't even know I was pregnant the first time…when I miscarried I thought I was dying…but I was okay, sort of. I mean I didn't _love_ that it had happened, but I wasn't, y'know, devastated or anything. But it happened over and over, and…well…eventually I got the message. I'm not supposed to have kids. My body can't take it, for some reason. I swore I was never going to date another guy again, so it wouldn't happen. But then I met you, and…oh, God, Drax, I never fell in love so fast in my entire freaking life…and you were worth the risk. But I wasn't thinking I'd get pregnant that quickly, until it happened, and I knew I was in trouble. And then it kept happening, and I didn't want to tell you, because I knew you'd lost a kid before and I couldn't…I couldn't keep hurting you like that. Getting your hopes up, letting you think I could give you a family, letting you get all excited and start talking about what we'd name the kid…I can just _see_ you trying to put an addition on the _Milano_ so we could give the baby its own room, for shit's sake…but you'd go through all that, get all excited, and then the baby would die. I just…couldn't keep doing that to you."

For a moment I am speechless. This explains so much. Suddenly his gradual deterioration over the last year makes so much sense. Peter is resilient, as I have had occasion to observe, but this is not something from which someone can speedily recover. And much as it hurts, I understand his reasons for keeping it a secret. I am touched that he cares so much for my feelings, that he would go through such lengths to spare me pain…and yet how can he not understand that it causes me pain anyway, to see him like this?

I cup my hand under his jaw and tilt his face upwards, forcing him to look at me. I try to be gentle; I know he is physically as well as emotionally vulnerable right now. "Peter, listen to me…I understand your reasons for keeping your secret. And I appreciate your attempts to spare my feelings. But I must remind you, you are no longer alone. Do you understand what that means?"

He smiles. It's a small, weak smile, but a smile nonetheless. "No, but I have the feeling you're about to tell me."

"Yes, I am…" I shift my grip on him, hoping to make him more comfortable. He relaxes against me, which I take as a positive sign. "Peter. Do you remember when we first met, and I drunkenly summoned Ronan so that I could face him in vengeful combat? The others mocked my grief, told me that what I did was unforgivable. You, however—you understood, you forgave me, you even gave me a second chance to destroy him. And every time I have felt such grief over my lost family since then, you have been there to comfort me. Do you recall any of this?"

He nods slowly, but a troubled expression has come over his face. "But—Drax, that's different. This is—this is _huge_, this isn't just, like, some problem that you can help me with, this isn't like if I came crying to you about my mom dying when I was a kid, this—this is our _baby_, this is a living thing—"

"And that is precisely why you should have involved me from the start."

"No!" He shakes his head vehemently. "No, I couldn't burden you with this, it's not your fault my body is so fucked-up I can't carry a kid for more than a month or two—"

"Burden? No, Peter, this is not a burden," I tell him firmly. "Do you feel burdened when I share my grief over my family?" He shakes his head again, somewhat uncertainly, and I know he understands what I am trying to say. "Then why should I consider this a burden? If I did not love you, perhaps it would be different…but I do love you. You know this, do you not? Or have I not told you often enough?"

Tears fill his eyes again. "I know. At least…I should have known. God, Drax, I'm so sorry…"

He buries his face in my neck and begins to cry again, and I know the time for talking has passed. I cradle him in my arms once more and rock him back and forth, murmuring soothing nonsense into his ear until I feel his body relax against mine. The tub is on the verge of overflowing now, so I gently pull away and ask him, "May I put you down for a moment?" He says yes, so I set him carefully on the toilet while I go and set up the bathtub for him. I return, pick him up, and strip him of his bloodstained clothing. "Tell me if the water is too hot," I say, before lowering him into the tub.

His eyes flutter closed as he makes contact with the water and I know I've done the right thing. "Thank you," he sighs. "I needed this."

"There is much you need that you have not allowed me to give you." I reach down and caress his cheek, unable to hold back a smile when he sighs and leans his face against my hand. "Will you allow me to care for you now?"

He opens his eyes and looks up at me. "Yes. Yes, I will."

"Then first thing tomorrow, we will either go to your home planet or find another planet capable of treating your condition." I see his eyes widen and I know he is about to protest. "This is not up for negotiation. Something is wrong with your body and you _will_ be examined by a doctor." When I see in his face that he is not about to concede—he still wants to fight me on this? Really?—I add, "You went through all of this because you thought it would hurt me to see you like this, yes? Peter, what do you think it will be like if you _die_?"

He is silent for a long moment. Finally he says, "Okay. Fine. I'll go."

"Good." I stroke his face a final time before I pull my hand away. I need to go and find him something clean to wear, and perhaps make him something hot to drink as well; right now he needs as much comfort as I can possibly give him.

And later when he's curled up beside me, wrapped in a soft blanket and holding a cup of hot chocolate (and despite what Gamora may say, I did _not_ need her to tell me that this Terran drink is his favorite), I take a moment to make him look at me again. "You must promise me that you will never try to endure such pain alone again. And that you won't try to force me to leave your side. Promise me that."

He looks at me shyly, and I feel a sudden desire to kiss that soft mouth of his. "I promise," he murmurs, and I act on my desire. His kisses taste of chocolate, and despite the bath I can still see traces of tears on his face when I pull back. I don't care. We kiss again, and this time neither of us pulls away.

He is mine once again. And this time, I will ensure that it remains that way.


	6. Chapter 6

[Peter]

~_two years later_~

So Drax kind of forced me to take Rocket's advice. We both knew the chances of Earth having any doctors who could handle male pregnancy were slim to none, so in the end we went to Xandar for help. The drugs they gave me were basically the same thing that they gave Terran women to help with reproductive system-related issues. Birth control pills, really. But they helped. For a year there were no pregnancy scares, no miscarriages. No sleepless nights and no bloody, painful wakeup calls.

That didn't mean everything was perfect, though. For the first few months I'd wake up with phantom cramps and rush to the bathroom, sure I was about to start bleeding again. Other nights, there were dreams. Bad ones. The kind where the unborn babies came back to life and chased me down, or—even worse—when Drax left me because I couldn't carry his child. But he always comforted me after these dreams and soon I was able to accept that no matter what happened, he was not going to abandon me.

Then sometimes I would randomly cry, at odd hours—sometimes at night, sometimes at the breakfast table, sometimes when we were in the middle of a fueling station—and naturally, this completely freaked my teammates out. But Drax was always there, always ready to lead me away to some private spot where I could mourn our lost children in peace. Sometimes he would cry with me. Sometimes we would take an escape pod and disappear together, and after a while our teammates got used to this. Sometimes I wouldn't let him hold me. That was okay too. He understood that sometimes I needed to be alone…just as long as we both had the understanding that being alone _all the time_ was not okay.

But there were so many happy moments too. Like when Gamora was able to save Nebula, or when we went to Earth and met Captain America, or when we blew up Thanos' entire army in one go, or when finally, _finally_, Rocket sucked it up and admitted he was in love with a freaking tree—I've never seen Groot so happy, and that's really saying something. And slowly those happy moments began to override the sad ones and after a while, those days when I needed to lock myself in the room and cry almost completely vanished. Almost.

But later on, after we banded together with some Earth heroes, the Avengers, and brought Thanos down, Drax and I started to talk about kids again. To say I was afraid of the whole thing was an understatement. Facing down an insane Titan was _nothing_ compared to losing another baby. But he wanted it, and if I was honest with myself so did I, so I went back to the doctor and explained the situation.

And for the first time in my life, I was told something that made me think that maybe, _maybe_, I wasn't completely useless when it came to reproducing after all.

I gotta tell you, I have no clue what the hell Ronan the Accuser had against Xandar. They have got some _fantastic_ medicine and technology there. Seriously. They gave me these shots—I made Drax come with me and hold my hand; hey, I'm a badass, galaxy-saving outlaw, sure, but I've got my limits when it comes to long scary needles—and, three days later, told me it was safe to try and conceive.

And hey, I had my doubts. Like huge, scary, nightmare-inducing doubts. And for a second when I saw the positive pregnancy test, all I could think was _Don't tell Drax, don't tell Drax, he can't know, he'll just be hurt when he finds out the baby died_…

But then I looked up. And he was standing right there. And I remembered what he said to me when he found out about the miscarriages: _I will never leave your side again. Tell me you understand._ Oh, I understood. And when he let out an inhumanly loud cry of excitement, I jumped up and shrieked right along with him until our celebration brought a very confused Rocket into the bathroom demanding to know what in the _hell_ was going on. But when we told him he was happy for us…which might explain why it took about .000002 seconds for Gamora and Groot to find out. But that was okay. I didn't mind them knowing.

Then we found out we were having twins and everyone _really_ went nuts. Rocket teased me about having a "litter" and Gamora complained that having _two_ infants on our ship was really going to slow down our work, but she immediately volunteered to help expand our room so we could fit a double crib inside and when we stopped on Earth for baby things (yes, I know we could have gotten those anywhere, but I really wanted Earth stuff, okay?) she helped pick out the baby clothes. Which in my opinion was in the top ten cutest things I've seen, _ever_.

And okay, I complained a lot for the first couple months of my pregnancy. Mainly because Drax would _not_ leave me alone. Like everything else, he took the promise to never leave my side _very_ seriously. And just like he wouldn't leave me to fend for myself when we were fighting off the biggest assholes in the galaxy, he wouldn't even _think_ of leaving me alone while I was carrying his children. And, yeah, it was kind of incredible, knowing he was there…but at the same time, holy _shit_ he would not leave me alone. I couldn't even _move_ without him appearing out of nowhere, all "What is it that you need? I will obtain it and bring it to you. You stay here, you should not exert yourself too much." Which was sweet, but it got _really_ annoying after a few times.

Or if I felt even a tiny bit nauseous (and this happened a _lot_; those shots did some great things but taking away my morning sickness was, sadly, not one of them) he would disappear to the kitchen and reappear in a heartbeat with ginger-based teas and candies, which he insisted would help with the nausea. And it never helped, but I always drank the tea and ate whatever food he brought me, until one day Rocket (God love him) all but screamed in his face, "Ginger is for _motion_ sickness, idiot, not _morning_ sickness! Jeez, what is _wrong_ with you, I'm not a doctor, hell I'm not even a _human_ and I know that!" I felt bad for Drax—I know he was just trying to help—but honestly, if I never taste ginger again it'll be too soon.

And when he cut me off from caffeine—well, let's just say the mood swings got even worse. And the nausea. And the dizziness. But he was there through all of it, and there were so many nights that I was so angry with him for some minor offense (the dumbest, in my personal opinion, was when he forgot to turn off the light in the bathroom) that I wouldn't even let him touch me after we got into bed. But by morning I'd find myself snuggled up to him like always, and he always understood that I was never _really_ mad at him, it was just the hormones talking.

Honestly, he was a saint. He really was. I mean, Jesus Christ, how many times did he willingly get up at some ridiculous hour to go and get me some random, usually disgusting meal just to satisfy my weird cravings? I remember one night I was absolutely _desperate_ for a spinach omelette, topped with colby Jack cheese and lime-flavored salsa…with a side of deep-fried Twinkies. And of course we were a couple million miles away from Earth (also known as _the only planet with deep-fried Twinkies, _what the hell is wrong with the rest of the galaxy?) when I had this craving. So what did he do? He got up, got dressed, and _drove the damn _Milano_ all the way to Earth_. Seriously. He did that. Just because I was hungry. That was three months ago and I _still_ can't believe it.

And then as the due date got closer he got more protective. For the last month I haven't been allowed to even make my own breakfast. Hell, I'm lucky if he lets me get dressed by myself in the mornings. I know why—he just wants to make sure I don't have any accidents; can't be too careful—but damn if I'm not going stir-crazy.

In fact, we're in the middle of a fierce argument about whether or not I should still be allowed to drive the _Milano_ when my water breaks. "For the love of God, Drax, I'm _sitting down_ when I drive the damn thing! It's not like I'm playing basketball or anything!"

"I don't know what that is, and it is irrelevant anyway. You are not driving again until the baby is born, and that is the end of this discussion."

"No it sure as hell is _not_ the end of this discussion!" I know I'm being too hard on him, again. But I haven't slept properly since my second trimester and I'm exhausted, caffeine-less, and cranky. And the fact that it's about ten thousand degrees on this damn ship doesn't help. "I don't know who the hell died and made you a medical expert, but I'm _not_ some delicate little flower, I helped you crush Ronan or _don't you remember that_?"

"You were not carrying my children when we crushed Ronan," he reminds me.

Shit. Hard to argue with that. "Okay yeah, but still, again I say—I'm not going to be jumping through hyperspace or anything, and I'm not even joyriding, I just want to drive my own spaceship, is that too much to—" _Oh fuck._ I break off mid-sentence as I feel warm liquid, too thin to be blood, soak my thighs. "Um. Drax?"

He immediately senses the change in my tone. "What is it?" he asks, concerned. He automatically looks towards my stomach. And then he sees. "Oh!" 

"Babies on the way—oh my God!" I gasp, and then moan as the pain of my first contraction fully hits me. "Okay. Okay, uh, well, we need to go to a hospital. Of any kind. Don't particularly care which one. Um. Now, please?"

We're not fifteen minutes' flying time from Xandar, but it feels more like fifteen years. Drax takes the wheel (obviously our driving argument is instantly forgotten) and Gamora sits in the passenger side with me, trying to comfort me through the contractions. "Okay, breathe in," she instructs, and I try to do so, but oh my God, it feels like the babies are _stabbing_ me. With really, _really_ sharp knives.

"Make it stop," I whine. I know I sound like a jerk, but seriously, did I mention _knives_?

Rocket, as always, gets fed up with my whining and decides to get shit done. "Gamora, out of my way," he orders, riding Groot's shoulders over to my side. He picks up my hand and shoves it towards Groot's. "You hold his hand," he orders Groot. "Quill, next contraction, you feel free to squeeze his hand as hard as you want, okay? You can't hurt him. It's not possible. So don't worry about that. And forget that breathing shit. Obviously I've never actually been through this, but I've been told it doesn't work. Yell your head off next time it hurts, okay? I hear that helps a lot more."

Drax chooses that moment to look over at me, exactly the same time I look over at him, and for a moment I don't think I can do this. I know it hurts him, seeing me in this much pain, and I tell myself I have to stay strong. For him. Because he's been my rock these past few months, and I owe it to him.

But then he looks straight ahead, watching for air traffic, and he says, "Do what you need to do, Peter. If screaming helps with the pain, then by all means. Scream as loud as you need to."

I know I don't need his permission, but it's nice to know I have it anyway. So when the next contraction hits I do as Rocket says, and grip Groot's hand painfully tightly (but apparently it can't hurt him, so I try not to worry about that) and scream as loud as I can. And it does help. A little more than trying to take deep breaths, anyway.

"How is he?" Drax asks Rocket after that contraction, when I'm still breathing too hard to speak for myself.

"Well let's see," Rocket says, mock-seriously. "Contractions are coming about five minutes and eleven seconds apart, he's dilated about four-point-oh-two centimeters and _for the love of shit Drax I'm not a doctor, how the hell would I know how he's doing_?" At the past part his voice rises to what can only be described as a sarcastic screech, and I don't know why this makes me laugh so hard, but it does. Rocket looks vaguely pleased with himself. "Yeah, I thought that would distract you a bit. Still hurt?"

I nod. "Yeah. But at least I've got entertainment."

By the time we reach the hospital on Xandar, the contractions have shrunk to three minutes apart and the pain is so intense I'm crying. When we get inside a handful of attendants surround me. For a moment I'm separated from Drax, and then I scream for a reason that has nothing to do with the pain. "Where is he? I need him! I need him! Give him back to me, now!" I cry, fighting against the nurse who is currently attempting to hook an IV feed into my arm.

"Will you shut up so I can get you your pain meds?" the nurse demands through gritted teeth.

Drax's face appears over her shoulder. "Stay still," he orders me, and I do. The nurse moves aside so he can be closer to me, and then proceeds to inject the pain meds (which really don't help too much, by the way, but they can't give me anything really heavy because of my history with miscarriages) into my IV, while Drax stands there and strokes my hand, letting me hold onto him through the worst of the contraction. "How are you feeling now?" he asks when it's over.

"Better," I manage to get out. "A bit less like the kid's trying to rip its way out through my kidneys—yeah I _know_ that's not biologically possible, don't even go there, I swear that's what it feels like."

By this time Gamora, Rocket, and Groot have fought their way past the attendants. "Not clean enough to be in a hospital my ass. You ever known _me_ to contaminate anything?" Rocket complains. He hops up and sits at the foot of my bed. "You alive?"

I nod, managing a nervous, weak smile. "Let me guess, I look like hell?"

"Meh, you've looked worse," Rocket shrugs. "And it's not like you need me to tell you that."

"True, but since when does that stop you?" The banter is so _normal_ that for a second I forget where I am, and what I'm doing here. But I remember when a sharp pain shoots through me, and I let out a little shriek, blindly groping for my lover's hand. "Drax!" I cry out, still desperately feeling around for him, eyes squeezed shut against the pain.

"I'm here, I'm here," he assures me, protectively closing one hand around mine. "Breathe. Cry if you need to. I am here, Peter. I am right here with you. You are safe."

Maybe it's stupid for him to say that—_you are safe_, like we're in the heat of battle or something—but it's what I need to hear. Of course I'm safe. _He_ is here. And as long as he is here nothing and no one can do anything to me that he doesn't want them to do. "Please don't go," I beg, gritting my teeth as another wave of pain hits me.

"I will not go. I will never leave your side, remember?" he reminds me, and then something wonderfully soft and cool is against my sweaty face. In spite of the contractions I smile. He's _still_ doing everything he can, even things that seem so meaningless, like sponging the sweat from my face—even those little, silly surface comforts are huge, coming from him. I cry out again, and he shifts our hands so that mine is on the outside. "Squeeze if you need to," he instructs. "I assure you, your tightest grip will not harm me."

"And if it does?" Okay, maybe that's not possible, but I've heard stories about things people did to their partners during labor. Scratching, biting, kicking, throwing cups of ice at their heads. And that was during the milder contractions.

"We'll risk it." With his free hand he smooths my sweaty hair back from my face. "I _have_ been through a few battles in my lifetime, Peter. I think I can handle one Terran gripping my hand."

He does have a point. So I do as I'm told, and feeling his hand inside mine makes the contractions more bearable. Between contractions I remind him not to leave me—as if I have to—and he repeatedly assures me that, no, he's not going anywhere. And every time he reminds me that he's here, that he's staying with me as long as I need him, I remember why I'm doing this, why every second of this pain will be worth it.

I'm moved into the delivery room-where, despite their protests, Gamora, Rocket and Groot are absolutely _not_ allowed to go-when the contractions are coming right on top of one another. This is when the trouble starts, because the contractions _are_ coming one after the other but the babies, for some reason, are not coming out. "Are they stuck in there?" I ask, suddenly afraid—I don't know why this even crosses my mind—that I'm going to be pregnant for the rest of my life.

"We don't know. We'll give them another minute or two and if they're still in there, we're getting you a C-section." The doctor goes off to prepare for the surgery, leaving poor Drax to deal with the fallout of this new development.

"I don't want them cutting into me!" It's unreasonable, I know. But tears flood my eyes anyway. I wanted to deliver our babies myself. I wanted to prove I could do it…and besides, the idea of having my stomach sliced open when I'm still awake genuinely squicks the hell out of me.

Drax soothingly caresses my hair, for what must be the zillionth time tonight. "They'll do whatever they have to do to get those babies out safely," he says firmly. "And even if they do have to operate—I promise you, I still won't go anywhere."

"Thank you," I whisper. Another contraction hits and this time I can feel the tears leaking down my face. I'm so tired, I just want this to be _over_, and honestly the C-section is starting to look _really_ good when the doctor comes back, checks me out, and tells me to start pushing. Oh, no. I can't do this, I can't do this, it hurts too much-just get them out of me, _please_—

But pushing actually doesn't feel too bad—it's better than the contractions, anyway. But it's _hard_. And I'm so tired…I want to give up. I just want to go to sleep, can't I finish giving birth tomorrow? But then I see Drax's face, so close to mine, and I feel the pressure of his hand linked with mine and I squeeze and he squeezes back, and I feel the urge to push again and I know, I _know_, I can do this as long as I've got him with me.

"One more push and this one's out," I vaguely hear the doctor report.

"One more push. One more. You can do it. The first baby is here. You can do this, just one more—" Drax's coaching is cut off by the sound of a tiny wail, a sound that I shouldn't immediately recognize—I could actually count the number of babies I've heard crying in my lifetime on one hand—but I do.

"Oh my God, is that ours?" I gasp. Idiotic question, really. I mean, whose else could it be? But in my defense I'm not exactly thinking clearly right now.

"She is ours. It's a girl," Drax says softly, and I can hear the wonder in his voice—this is coming from a man who has _had_ a kid before, who _knows_ what they look like and what they sound like and what it's like to hold one, and he _still_ sounds as amazed as I feel.

But it's not over yet. While one baby is being cleaned and wrapped, I still have to force the other one out. "This one should be easier," the doctor says, and whether this is the truth or just meant to encourage me I don't know, because it doesn't _feel_ a hell of a lot easier. Twins, I've read, can be born up to _hours_ apart. I only hope that's an exaggeration.

Drax lets me crush his hand again. "Just a few pushes, it's all right, you can do this," he tells me. I run my tongue over my cracked lips and immediately feel an ice chip slide into my mouth. "Breathe," he reminds me. Instead, I cry out in pain, and am rewarded with the sensation of his other hand sliding under my head, fingertips stroking the back of my neck. "I've got you," he says, and for a moment I forget the pain again, overwhelmed by my love for him.

And then the doctor reminds me to push and the pain is back full force. But with two more pushes the second baby is out, and this one is a girl too. I should be in shock—two girls, _what the hell?_—but all I can feel is relief. It's over, I can breathe again. I fall back against my pillow. "Two girls," I groan. "Jesus, Drax. What the hell are we gonna do with two girls?"

He looks confused by this question. "Caring for daughters is no more difficult than caring for sons," he informs me. "If you don't understand how to—"

"Oh, be quiet," I say, unable to hold back a half-hysterical laugh. God, I'm so tired. "When can we hold them? I want to hold them."

"Right now," the doctor replies, and if I weren't so tired I might jump because I _definitely_ didn't notice him coming back. A tiny, pink-wrapped bundle is placed in my arms. The other is handed to Drax.

And suddenly the hours of pain seem so _worth it_, because the little face peeking at me from the folds of the blankets is _incredible_. She's absolutely, 100% _perfect_. She's pale, like I am, with light-colored peach-fuzz for hair…but when she opens her eyes they are the same shocking blue as Drax's, and forget it, I'm _gone_. "She looks like us," I whisper, awed at this tiny, perfect thing in my arms.

He leans over my shoulder to look at her. "She does." He lets me see our other daughter. This one has his blue-gray skin, but my hazel eyes and long eyelashes.

"She's pretty too," I breathe. "Oh my God. We have pretty kids. How did that happen? Holy shit, you think they're gonna act like us, too? What if they grow up and one of them goes around stealing shit and hooking up with random hot aliens and the other one turns out to be a total badass who can, like, wipe the floor with me if I try to ground her? And what if—"

"Peter. You are not making sense," he cuts me off.

"Story of my life." I look back down at the baby in my lap. And suddenly I can barely keep my eyes open. "I'm so _tired_," I complain, but when someone tries to pull the baby from my arms I won't let her go. "No! Mine," I say childishly.

I hear Gamora laughing. When did she get here? "Let him hold her," she says softly. "I think he's earned that right."

"He'll fall asleep and drop her." Is that the doctor? When did he come back? I'm so tired…

The baby is gently removed from my arms. I hear a voice saying it's time to move me to a private room. "I want my baby back. And I don't want to move," I whine. Then I think of something else I want: "I want to sleep."

I feel a comforting hand rest over mine. Drax, of course. "You can sleep. The babies and I will be right here."

"You promise?" I can barely keep my eyes open—God, who knew this was so exhausting?—but I look up into his eyes. Oh, God. The way he's looking at me is just…incredible. Like _I_ am the miracle, and not the two beautiful little girls lying in his arms.

He kisses my forehead. "You have my word."

The last thought I have before I fall asleep is that I've finally done it. I've finally given the man I love a family.

I finally have _my_ family.


	7. Epilogue

**Here we are, last chapter! I want to thank everyone who has been sweet enough to review, favorite, and follow. Especially Shinigami Hollow, who left me the longest (and sweetest!) review EVER. And thanks to whoever came up with the idea on the kink meme prompt, this has been so much fun to write! (Am I allowed to say that about such an angsty story? Whatever, I'm saying it.) This was a rollercoaster and I'm so glad it's finished. I hope everyone liked it…and to whoever posted on the GotG kink meme, I hope it was everything you wanted! :)**

[Drax]

We bring the twins home within two days. It is lucky that nothing went wrong with the birth, considering Peter's medical history. But it did go well, and we are able to bring our children home very soon after they are born.

The night we bring them back to the _Milano_ Peter refuses to sleep. He sits up all night, holding one or both of our daughters close against his chest. At first I'm unaware of what is happening and sleep through some of the night. But when one of our girls starts to fuss I awaken, and I see that he is already sitting up, rocking her and singing her one of the songs from that audio tape of his. "You should go to bed," I tell him. "Your body is still recovering from childbirth. You need rest."

He shakes his head, still singing quietly to our daughter. I look closer and see that it is Meredith, the one who looks more like him. Luna is still asleep in the crib. I remember when we named them, hours after their birth, Peter under the influence of pain medication. He insisted I name one and he name the other. I chose Luna—it seemed appropriate, given that she was born under a full moon—and he took more than an hour to decide on Meredith. He wouldn't tell me why, though. I can't help but wonder if it was the name of a former conquest of his, but I haven't asked.

As he finishes the song and Meredith finally quiets, he finally turns his head and looks into my eyes. I move closer, so that I can put my arm around him. We look down at our child together. "She's so pretty, isn't she?" he says softly, reverently. "Earlier I got up to feed Luna and I swear she looked like an angel. I thought babies were little monsters the first few weeks. I think we got lucky."

"Luck had nothing to do with this."

"Yeah? How do you explain the fact that they've only cried once since they were born?" He looks down at Meredith again, then back to me. "Honestly, I'm kind of afraid it won't last."

"What won't last?" For a moment I worry that he's speaking of our daughters' lives. Could the doctor have told him something he didn't tell me?

"This. Being happy and everything." He gestures vaguely around the room. "Having you. Having real kids that didn't die on me. Having real friends who are willing to drive through air traffic just to get kicked out of the room when I'm in labor. You know. All of that."

I pull him closer and gently guide his head down onto my shoulder. "I will always be here." How often must I tell him this before he understands?

He closes his eyes. I feel his eyelashes flick across my skin. "I don't think I could stop loving you if I tried. Actually I did try. Didn't work." He yawns, and I know he's trying to hide it, but I can tell how tired he is. "I should sleep. I don't want to put her down, though." He looks up at me sheepishly. "I'm, uh…kind of afraid she'll disappear."

"Our daughters are not sorceresses. They will not vanish in the night," I assure him. I gently remove Meredith from his arms and replace her in her crib. She doesn't awaken, so I return to bed and pull Peter down beside me. "Now will you rest?" I ask him.

He curls up against my side. I take that as acquiescence and prepare to go back to sleep, but a moment later I hear him whisper, "It's my mom's name."

"What?"

"Meredith," he explains. "That was my mother's name."

"Oh…" Now I understand. Not a former conquest, then, but the woman he idolized as a child, the woman he lost. It's wonderful, it's sweet, but it's so sad at the same time. And so I can think of nothing to do besides pull him even closer to me and kiss him gently on the mouth. He sighs contentedly and rests his head on my shoulder.

But before he can drift back to sleep, Luna begins to fuss. He looks at me for a moment, obviously confused. "I just fed and changed her an hour ago, what can she possibly need?"

I can't help but laugh at his ignorance. "Welcome to parenthood," I say, and his tired face suddenly lights up. I rarely tease him like this, but I do know he enjoys it.

"Well…" He pulls himself out of bed and retrieves Luna. The moment she sees his face, she starts to quiet. He looks up at me, a huge, childish grin on his face. "Seems pretty easy to me." Then he looks down at her. "Maybe I shouldn't say that. Just wait until they're older. I swear, if either of them are anything like me, they'll be giving us heart attacks as soon as they can walk."

"If your daughter grows up to be a space pirate—"

"Whoa, _my_ daughter? They're _our_ kids, aren't they? What if the one who got more of _your_ genetic traits winds up, like, running away from home to be a Marine or something?"

"A what?"

"It's a kind of Terran warrior," he explains. "Oh Jesus, Drax, I just thought of something. What if they want to go back to my home planet and become _Avengers_?"

"Then we'll know we have raised them well." I stand up and try to take Luna from his arms. He pouts, but reluctantly hands her over. "You really should be in bed," I tell him.

"I know." But before he can say anything else, Meredith starts to fuss again. He lifts her up and she immediately quiets. "But they need us. And admit it, Drax…we needed them. A lot."

I wrap the arm that isn't holding my daughter around my partner, and I smile when he leans his head against my shoulder. He's right, we needed this. Our family. A second chance, for both of us. I look at our daughters again. Peter seems fascinated by how beautiful they are, and I can see why; they _are_ beautiful. But I don't see why he's so surprised. They're _our_ children, why wouldn't they be special?

I smile at that thought. _Ours_. They are ours. This is our family. And it is finally complete.

_Crash!_

"GROOT, YOU IDIOT!"

"Hey, don't you dare start on him! It ain't _his_ fault you leave your damn weapons in stupid places like _on top of the refrigerator_!"

"Oh, well isn't _that_ nice, coming from a creature who conceals bombs in his _sock drawer!_"

"I am Groot!"

"Yeah, I know buddy, she's being damn unreasonable, am I right?"

"Rocket, I know perfectly well that is _not_ what he said!"

"Oh yeah? Since when can you translate Groot?"

"I can't _exactly_, but I _know_ you twist his words to suit your purpose!"

"Oh yeah? Prove it! Ain't no one understand Groot but me, makes it kind of difficult to prove those baseless accusations, eh?"

"You obnoxious, _arrogant_—"

"I AM GROOT!"

"WE HEARD YOU THE FIRST TIME YOU OVERGROWN TREE! NOW STOP PISSING OFF GAMORA SO WE CAN GET SOME SLEEP AROUND HERE!"

The shouting gives way to more crashes. Peter and I look at each other for about five seconds, and then we laugh. The true miracle in all of this is that Luna and Meredith stay asleep.

"Some things never change," Peter says, rolling his eyes. 

I turn his face to mine and give him a quick kiss. "Such as my love for you?" For some inexplicable reason, that makes him blush…but he's smiling, so I know I've said the right thing.

"Yeah," he says softly, leaning against me again. "Yeah. Things like that."


End file.
